Beyond the Horizon
by LCFC
Summary: "We're done," Sam mumbles, so quiet that Dean thinks he might be hearing things, "we are done Dean."


He watches the sun set beyond the mountains, staining the sky red.

It is cold and he huddles further into his hoodie, legs tucked up to his chin as he balances on the hood of the Impala, her metallic surface cold beneath the thin material of his jeans.

In the driver's seat Dean is scrunched uncomfortably, his head resting on the window, his leather jacket, faded now, a makeshift pillow. The road behind them is well travelled and ahead of them the journey is endless, the horizon unreachable.

He remembers a time when he wanted normal but that seems like an eternity ago; he can recall the scent of Jessica's hair in the morning, remember the feel of old law books under his questing fingers. He used to fall asleep in lectures, he used to swim thirty lengths of the pool, he painted the walls of his apartment yellow and he went grocery shopping.

Normal seemed so far away now; lost along with Jessica, replaced by head splitting visions, odd powers that he never did learn to control. Instead of coffee he drank demon blood. He replaced sweet smelling curls with coarse brunette tresses that stank of sulphur, he died, died so many times, he went to hell, he lost his soul, he almost lost his sanity and yet, here he was, years down the line and no nearer to peace than he ever was.

Dean shifts in the seat and moans, his hand swatting at his face as if he was being plagued by an invisible fly. There is grey running through his short spikes now, lines around his eyes and mouth. There are shadows beneath his fluttering lids, a huge bruise on his cheek from where a harpy threw him against the wall. Dean is forty – and he looks tired, worn through and it is time, time they started to think about normal again.

He knows it won't be easy; Dean had his attempt at normal with Lisa and Ben; Dean was domesticated, he had a job, a station wagon, a barbeque. Sam knows that when the monster that killed Lisa suffered at Dean's hands, knows that Dean was tempted to stay with Ben, that Dean spent days, weeks, months trying to do the right thing. Sam stayed with him, after all, he knew – more than anyone – that watching the woman you love die stays with you for the rest of your life and it changes you – God how it changes you – and Dean – Dean would never be the same.

Bobby was still their i go to guy/i but he was old and frail and Sam didn't know how to handle that. He hadn't really had much experience with older people because, after all, everyone they had ever loved had died before they even hit their sixties…

They had a broken down bed at Bobby's but they didn't have a home, not really. They had the Impala, two duffle bags full of tattered clothing and a whole load of pain. Sam wanted more; he wanted more for Dean, for Bobby, he wanted more for himself too even if it did seem selfish.

But, then again, they had saved the world; there were no statues, no great writings, not even a thank you. b The Winchester Gospel/b didn't mean squat to anyone. Chuck had gone, Lucifer was caged, Cas had quelled the civil war in heaven and all was right with the world.

Surely, Sam mused, as the sun dipped away completely and the Impala was enveloped by stars, they deserved to rest now, to put away their knives and their gun and their holy water, surely they deserved to sit on a battered porch somewhere and watch the world go by.

All he really needed to do was to persuade Dean of that fact and then, then they might be able to move on…

Dean's eyes flutter open; it is dark and his neck is stiff and he knows by the cold enveloping him that it is still night; that he has been asleep for a long time but really, really needs to sleep some more.

Sam is curled up on the passenger seat, head resting on Dean's shoulder, cheek wrinkled from where it has been pressed up against Dean's shirt, face icy, nose icy, eyes half open or maybe half closed.

Sam's mouth is soft on his skin, teeth nipping gently, his fingers rubbing across Dean's hair, tangling in the sagging spikes.

"We're done," Sam mumbles, so quiet that Dean thinks he might be hearing things, "we are done Dean."

"Sammy?" His bruised face hurts like a bitch and he has cramp in his toes yet he feels a strange sense of happiness, of contentment creeping up on him and he holds his brother's body closer to him, knowing he should put a stop to this, that he should be the better man, be the big brother, stop Sam doing whatever he is doing, "Sammy?" he croaks again and his brother smiles.

"We're done Dean," Sam says.

Dean knew his brother meant what he said; he could see it in Sam's eyes, wide and dark and so full of feeling. Dean shuddered as he remembered the year that Sam didn't feel anything, when Sam sat him down and told him as such. The fear he felt back then was palpable, the fear that Sam would just up and leave again because there was nothing anchoring Sam in place, no love, no affection, nothing. Sam stayed though and Dean knew he had been right – despite the risks – to get Sam's soul back.

Now Sam almost felt too much; he had always been the emotional one, the one who had the most empathy with others but now it was so easy to read him, easy to see when he was happy, sad, upset or angry. Sam was a lot more touchy feely than he used to be too, brushing his lips across Dean's cheek, rubbing his hands through Dean's hair, keeping his palm firm against the dip in Dean's spine, his touch warm and true.

Dean rubbed at his face; Sam had nibbled at his skin and it had been odd, strange and almost too intimate . He put his hand on Sam's and nodded, not needing to speak, not needing to say a word, knowing that his brother got it, got everything.

It was never going to be easy; they couldn't just go off and get a house, couldn't even rent one. They had fake everything, ID's, insurance numbers, names. Neither of them were qualified in anything either. Sure Dean had his GED and Sam his partial law qualifications and awesome LSAT scores but they hadn't done anything but hunt, deal and die and their job didn't actually come with references.

Bobby's place was a possibility and Dean knew Sam wanted to ask; Bobby looked old now, shrunken, head completely bald beneath that familiar cap, shoulders hunched, beard grey. He struggled to move fast and in the winter months he was virtually housebound, but he was still Bobby, still grumpy, still a belligerent bastard and Dean wondered if he would really like them there or if they would just be a nuisance to him.

There was Lisa's house; she had left it to him and he realised it was because she had thought he might bring up Ben there but he had left soon after she had gone. Ben lived in the house now with his aunt and uncle and Dean didn't want any part of it. He had tried to be a good partner to Lisa, a surrogate father to Ben but he had failed in that just as he felt he had failed in most other aspects of his life.

So there was just him and Sam and his baby, big, black and fuel gobbling, she wasn't going to last much longer either and Dean – Dean – like Sam – was done.

Bobby seemed glad to have them; he sat them down at his table and made chilli, strong and hot, gave them beer that they were sure was laced with holy water and gave them silence as they ate a good meal for once, drank the beer and told Bobby their plans.

Dean could see how tired Bobby was, how lonely and he could also see the hope in the old man's eyes when Sam suggested they stay with him for a while. Bobby smiled, smiled a lot and Dean felt warm inside, not just from the chilli but from the company; the three of them the only ones still standing, the list of those lost far longer than the list of those who remained.

Bobby stood by the dying flames and wiped his eyes; beside him Sam was crying openly not even trying to stem his emotions. Dean stood stoic, staring at the pyre, his hands buried in his pocket, his face impassive, a single tear tracking its way down his cheek.

The stink of gas was all that was left of Dean's baby and Bobby knew how painful it must be. The car had been family, the car had been home, the car had been their saviour on more than one occasion and had survived a head on crash, the Apocalypse and a gas shortage. Bobby swallowed hard; Dean had refused to scrap her, refused to see her standing in his scrap yard rotting away. Dean had insisted she go out like the hunter she was, like all of his family, all of his friends. They had salted her and set her tank alight. The explosion had been a sight to see but now, now there was nothing left but embers and the Winchester boys would never see her like again.

Bobby was tired; not one part of him that didn't ache and now his eyes were growing dim, even his strongest glasses not good enough for him to read his books anymore, to see the fine print on a biblical text or even to look at a computer screen. At nights he would lie in bed and wonder if today would be his last on earth; if he would have a visit from the reaper in charge of his soul. He kinda hoped it was the pretty girl that Dean had mentioned rather than the grim old man he had heard talk about. Bobby was more than ready, his soul was safe and he had had a good life. He had, what was left, of his family around him and he was ready to go join his wife wherever she had gone, ready for some rest and some peace.

When the boys stay though, they give him his life back, his aches seem to fade and his eyes recover enough to see his flush at poker, to read the skin mags that Dean 'finds' around the place, to see the happiness on the faces of the brothers, at rest, no danger, death no longer a threat to them just a distant promise.

Retirement wasn't boring or claustrophobic like he had feared; retirement meant lying in the shabby old bed in the morning, shifting around until his body was away from the lumps, pulling the thread worn blankets up around his shoulders and watching the sun rise.

Dean would make breakfast, squeeze oranges and strawberries into the blender so that he could make Sam a disgusting smoothie; toasting stale white bread and smothering it with butter, boiling an egg in Bobby's battered old pan, the rattle of the shell against the sides, soothing and familiar.

He didn't want another car so he walked; Sam would come with and they would traverse the land around the junk yard. Sam did gay things like try to grow vegetables and flowers, planting potatoes and seeds that might or might not turn into tomatoes. Dean would strip off his tee shirt and burn his shoulders, his skin freckling in the heat. They would just laze the day's away, content to be here, to still be here, to be alive.

There were no women; Sam had flatly refused to revisit old ground. _Sara would be married by now he insisted and Cara would never even remember him._ He would say this and look at Dean with soft, dark eyes. There would be no settling down for either of them. They had each other and that would have to be enough.

It is cold and he huddles further into his hoodie, legs tucked up to his chin as he balances on the hood of the old truck that Bobby tried to give them, its metallic surface cold beneath the thin material of his jeans. Dean sits beside him, beer in hand, arm slung over his shoulders to bring him closer. The road behind them was well travelled and ahead of them the journey is endless, timeless, the horizon passed and the future infinite…

End


End file.
